The blizzard was gaining in strength as the final captive breathed his last, the limp corpse dangling beneath the snow-covered boughs. Grim and resolute was Myark's expression as he surveyed the scene, his hands resting upon the staff of True Light. Around him bustled a squad of elite mage hunters, their rifles slung across their fur-clad backs. Myark himself wore only his robes and armour, his mastery of fire magic precluding the cold from affecting his body.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and several hunters looked around nervously- though it could be natural, no Arstotzkan soldier could hear the sound without needing to suppress an urge to dive for cover. Gunners ran over to man the two cannons set up to guard the camp, eyes peering through the snow for the tell-tale glow of Moskurg's aircraft. The archmage took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, eyes still on the executed prisoners.
Without warning, a dozen trees exploded in flashes of blinding light, splinters of wood flying through the air. A particularly large piece was on course to pierce Myark's skull, but it burst into flame in midair, burning up completely in the space of a second. A smattering of ash settled on the plain grey cloak. He grunted, brushed the ashes away, and turned to face the skies. Around him, the momentary chaos subsided as the hunters' professionalism became apparent; the lightly injured stoically ignoring their pain, and tending to those who suffered more serious wounds, whilst others unslung rifles and swept their gazes methodically across the sky. For a strike to be so accurate, the caster must be nearby- near enough to shoot, at least.
With a single shouted word, one of the watchers alerted others to the sight of a rapidly approaching glowing shape. Immediately cannons turned to face the threat, though their operators held their fire for the moment, knowing that a careless shot would be wasted against the glowing metal hull. For his part, Myark started to summon forth a dozen flaming spheres, in anticipation of a firefight.
Rapidly the glow approached, until its form coalesced into that of a Skyhawk, bearing down upon the gathering at breakneck speed. Cannons barked in anger, aimed at the engines, yet they could not track the rapid craft, and their shots deflected harmlessly off of the hull, leaving naught but small dents. Barely had the watchers time to make out the flowing script painted across the side of the vessel- which, were they capable of reading the holy script, they would observe to say "Aleizat Lilah", or "Glory to God"- before its hull buzzed the treetops, branches scraping across the polished surface. No sooner than it had arrived the Aleizat departed, flying off into the snows- though not before dropping off a number of gifts.
Hunters dove for cover as dozens of flaming shells rained from the sky, covering the ground in unquenchable fire, filling the air with noxious smoke. Myark alone strode uncaring through the flames, which of course could never touch him. And so it was Myark alone who noticed the Aleizat's second gift descending upon them, in the form of a dozen black figures riding glowing tubes- and a single figure bedecked in gold and purple, dropping down without any equipment to slow his fall, his magic alone enough to arrest his descent.
A trio of fireballs took out a trio of paratroopers, but the other nine- and their master- reached the ground all but unopposed, those hunters who noticed them before they landed too slow to bring their rifles to bear. Leaping off of their rides and drawing swords in one smooth motion, the Black Phantasms laid into the scattered hunters with a vengeance, whose tendency to forgo armour was now their undoing. al-Mutriqa fell like his namesake upon the hunter captain, whose crystal armour shattered beneath the warrior-poet's golden mace.
A flash of annoyance crossed Myark's face as he watched the hunters fall before the phantasms like an untrained mob. Raising his staff, and intoning a word of power, he unleashed its potential upon the assailants. Faced with a close-range assault by the mind-breaking artifact, several wavered, giving the hunters time to regroup, discarding rifles for crystal axes. But their reprieve was brief, as al-Mutriqa raised his wand- the wand of Heroism- bringing its ancient magic forth in direct opposition to the Arstotzkan creation. For all that they derided the magic of the ancients as crude, unscientific nonsense, undeniably Moskurg's artifact held power, on a level to match their own. The magic fighting for the minds of the midnight warriors filled the air with the taste of strange spices, made the trees shimmer, and caused the two artifacts to glow ever brighter.
The rivals (nearly ancient themselves) wasted no time being distracted by the magical phenomena, but hastened to bring their magic to bear against the other. Myark fired fireball after fireball at the shining sorcerer, who deflected each with a blast of wind. For his part, the arctic archmage summoned crystal rods to catch the lightning that al-Mutriqa called down upon him, producing crystal at an astonishing rate.
As their respective bodyguards fought around them, the two circled each other, as fire and lightning turned the woods around them into a charred, smouldering wreck. Eventually their circling brought them into arms reach of the other, with Myark drawing his sword as al-Mutriqa brandished his mace. Soon the cacophony of spells was joined by the ringing of adamantium on crystal, the two seasoned warriors deft hands at spellcasting whilst in the midst of combat.
As the duel continued, with no end in sight, the Black Phantasms were having more luck, slaying the hunters more used to ranged combat than swordfighting- an all but archaic art these days, as the clash of infantry had little impact on the outcome of a battle. One hunter, however, managed to detach himself from the melee long enough to pick up a rifle, slot in the HonestStrike module, and take aim at the two duelling wizards. They danced too fast for him to get a bead on al-Mutriqa- but with HonestStrike, he didn't need to. As two of his comrades all but impaled themselves on the Phatasm's swords to keep them away from him, he took a deep breath, uttered a brief prayer to Moskurg's god, and pulled the trigger.
Perhaps he mispoke his prayer. Perhaps Moskurg's god truly existed, and favoured al-Mutriqa- whose piety was beyond reproach- so much that He would not bless a projectile aimed at the golden hero. Perhaps the shot was impossible, with Myark standing fully between the rifle and his nemesis.
Whatever the case may be, Myark let out a cry of pain as the shot penetrated his armour, blood spurting out from his right shoulder. To his credit, he maintained his grip on his sword, even managing to block al-Mutriqa's strike, but the battle was clearly lost, and the next blow to his side could not be blocked. Stumbling backwards, dropping his sword, he fell to the ground, at the mercy of his rival.
"Go on then", he spat, "end it."
Instead, al-Mutrqia raised his hand, whereupon the Black Phantasms stepped back and lowered their blades, leaving the surviving hunters- who were on the brink of annihilation- bewildered.
"Almawt yati lana, ya sadiqi, walakun lays alyawm.", al-Mutriqa intoned in the holy tongue. "Take your leader and go", he told the hunters in a language they could understand.
They did not need telling twice, and the handful of survivors hoisted Myark up, and slinked away into the trees, soon disappearing into the blizzard.
al-Mutriqa raised his hand, and the clouds parted. He led the Phantasms in prayer for the souls of the fallen, Moskurger and Arstotzkan alike, before directing them to cut down the executed prisoners, as that they might be taken home for a proper burial.
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Topic: Wands Race - [Moskurg] {COMPLETED} (Read 204275 times)